


Adaptation

by withlightning



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-26
Updated: 2010-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:12:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withlightning/pseuds/withlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's like their lives, Arthur the black next to Eames the silver, sharing the same city, sharing the same space; sharing the same life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adaptation

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Just a spur of the moment thing. Quickly written without much thought. (And yeah, it might be showing.) :)
> 
> 2\. Originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/withthunder/3933.html#cutid1), September 25th 2010

"Let's get married," Eames says seemingly out of the blue in one bright, sunny summer day. They're sitting in one of Arthur's favorite places in the world, this old wooden platform of a terrace in Camden Town, London, and enjoying their extra creamy ice cream. Arthur has always liked London, the occasionally dense weather, the busy, colorful people and the whole at-hands atmosphere – but he only started to think about the city as _home_ when he found himself spending more time in Eames' London flat than in his own, in Paris.

 

He suspects it's because of the millions of people buzzing around, making him feel small and insignificant; making him blend in, becoming just another Londoner; making him feel like he's _normal_ in a way he hasn't felt in years; making him feel like there might be one place left upon this planet that he could belong in. It's also because of Eames, naturally. Eames, who despite Arthur's defiant declining and shoot-downs worn his way under Arthur's skin, made himself known and cared for and somewhere along the way made himself something Arthur had surprisingly hard to live without.

 

And so it happened that one time during their bi-weekly phone call marathon, Eames asked, once again, Arthur to jump on the train and come visit him, "The Embankment is absolutely lovely this time of the year and they serve rightly cooked Wellingtons in this gorgeous restaurant and the view from the table is just breath-taking—" and Arthur had said, "Shut up, Eames. I'm coming, alright?" The silence that came after Arthur's interruption was confused and Arthur bit his lip in order to keep the barking laugh inside that threatened to make itself known.

 

"You're not pulling my leg now, are you?" Eames had asked then, voice small and so goddamn serious, that Arthur's smile had vanished altogether.

 

He had swallowed once, knowing there was no backing down now, knowing this was it; knowing it was going to happen all along, that they were just waiting for the right moment, and suddenly Arthur's heart was beating painfully, hands getting stickier with sweat and he tightened the grip of his phone and said into the long-drawn, hopeful silence, "No, Eames, I'm not."

 

And that's how he had found himself in St Pancras railway station, a roguishly dressed Eames waiting for him in the end of the platform, shining and beautiful and separate from every other person in the station, leaning against the pillar, wearing widely-stretched, toothy smile; looking _giddy_ , Arthur realized and when Eames stood straight, walked the few steps between them and wrapped his arms around Arthur in a crushing hold. And Arthur, Arthur inhaled Eames' cologne with deep breaths, let his nose glide against Eames' warm neck and knew he wouldn't be leaving any time soon.

 

Four years later, it's true. He only goes back to Paris to prepare for jobs, to take care of business and every time he comes back to London, he brings some of his stuff back with him. His apartment in Paris is practically empty these days; his large collection of books have made their way into Eames' bookshelf, mingling with Eames' foreign literature of business-related pieces; his crisp dresses hang in Eames' closet, right next to Eames' more colorful set of jackets; his laptop resides next to Eames' own, black next to silver, sharing the same, time-browned printer.

 

It's like their lives, Arthur the black next to Eames the silver, sharing the same city, sharing the same space; sharing the same life.

 

The transition, not the smoothest in the history, has never made Arthur regret anything; not that they waited so long, not that they finally got together, not that they practically moved in together instantaneously.

 

There's no regret whatsoever when Eames wakes him up with feathery, fluttering kisses along his shoulder blades and neck ("This skin of yours, darling, is made to be kissed.").

 

There's no regret when Eames makes him coffee in the mornings ("My special blend, just for you.").

 

There's no regret when Eames leaves him chest-warming notes around the apartment to be found during the lonely days ( _Have I ever mentioned how impeccably ravishing you look in your three-piece?_ ) – ( _Is it any wonder I really didn't want to leave, what with the marvellous twisting thing you did with your talented mouth last night?_ ) – ( _Dear God, I don't think I've ever loved anyone like this before._ ).

 

There's no regret when Eames leaves him note with the daily stuff ( _Remember to buy milk, love. I intend to make you pancakes in the morning and without proper milk the process becomes rather tedious._ ) – ( _Can't wait to get home!_ ) – ( _Cobb called, didn't want to wake you up. I told him you'd call later. Don't let him rope you into anything I wouldn't do (yes, I realise there aren't many things like that, you cheesy bugger!)_ ).

 

There's no regret when Eames drives him to the airport, kisses him silly in the car and farewells him, leaving him with a raging hard-on ("Just to remind you what's waiting for you back home.").

 

There's no regret when Arthur wakes up in the middle of the night, hand searching the cool and empty spot behind him, throat dry and painful as he reaches for his phone and it rings once, twice and Eames answers, knowing Arthur has difficulties sleeping without him ("It's alright, love, just lie back and think of England and the morning comes sooner than you think.").

 

There are no regrets at all.

  
~*~

  
"Let's get married," Eames says in the middle of eating his melting cone of chocolate ice cream, licking the dripping drops of it.

 

Arthur's gaze rests in the Holiday Inn on the other side of the river, the tang taste of cherries strong on his tongue and he licks his lips. In the shadow of the maple tree it would be so easy to say, _yes, let's, now_ , being only one of the millions of people in London, it'd be so easy to say, _there's this lovely chapel-like building in Maida Vale, I think it would be the place to do it_ — and being utterly and ridiculously in love with Eames, it's easy to reach out and pull the lapels of his shirt and kiss him; cherry against chocolate, black against silver, one pair of lips against the other and whisper, "What took you so long?"

  
\- Fin


End file.
